


running through the darkness with his own becoming light

by imadetheline



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadetheline/pseuds/imadetheline
Summary: His troops have already been through here, clearing out any remaining rebels and important information that may have been left behind. The transports are already taking off outside. Vader can hear them, feel the rumble beneath his feet, as well as sense the life forms moving towards the Executor waiting in orbit.He is the only one here, standing like a spectre of death in the rubble and ruins that have been his companions for years. Only now are they beginning to wear on him and join the swirling emptiness his chest cannot contain.Or: Luke leaves pieces of himself in every evacuated base and Vader is left trying to piece together the clues of his son's life without him.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 53
Kudos: 248
Collections: Luke and Vader Bonding





	running through the darkness with his own becoming light

**Author's Note:**

> title from the poem July 4, 1974 by June Jordan
> 
> ok so this was an ask i received on tumblr:
> 
> "You know, I think one of the most interesting things to think about when it comes to Vader’s MANY attempts to capture Luke (and the Alliance’s subsequent evacuation of the bases) is all the stuff the rebels left behind. Do you think that Vader ever came across any of Luke’s personal effects while going through an abandoned rebel base?? Like maybe Vader found some scribbled journal entries, half-finished tinkering projects, love letters from besotted rebels, etc. Idk, I just find the idea f Vader collecting Luke’s things from bases to be cute"
> 
> and it wasn't quite a prompt but it inspired this short fic so I'm sorry i never responded. i just had to find time to write this first :)

The base is abandoned, evacuated. His son is not here.

Of course, Vader had known that before he even entered the planet’s atmosphere. Luke’s presence is blinding in the Force. Its absence--as he steps over rubble, strewn across the barren wasteland that stretches out behind him, towards the base’s half-collapsed entrance--has never been more apparent. He’d felt its warmth on Bespin briefly, and since then, not even the searing fire of his anger brings him any warmth anymore. No, his son’s rejection had brought with it a numbing sense of emptiness, of loss. It shouldn’t have meant anything. His son is not dead; he has not lost anything. So why does it feel like he has?

He pushes those thoughts away and forges deeper into the rebel base. The bombing from orbit that almost collapsed the entrance has knocked out the base’s power, so now only the emergency-generator-powered lights gleam dimly along the edges of the ceiling. It’s of no consequence to Vader; the Force and the red-tinted lenses of his mask would have allowed him to see without them. 

His troops have already been through here, clearing out any remaining rebels and important information that may have been left behind. The transports are already taking off outside. Vader can hear them, feel the rumble beneath his feet, as well as sense the life forms moving towards the Executor waiting in orbit. 

He is the only one here, standing like a spectre of death in the rubble and ruins that have been his companions for years. Only now are they beginning to wear on him and join the swirling emptiness his chest cannot contain.

Logically, there is no reason for him to be here, no reason for him to have even left the Executor. His troops are capable. There’s nothing for him here.

And yet, as Vader walks further into the base, he pictures his son walking these same halls, not dark as they are now but white and polished and full of light. He tries to imagine Luke smiling. But he’s never seen his son smile--a fact he finds himself lamenting more and more each day--so the image ends up looking a little too similar to a young Anakin Skywalker.

The Force pulls him from his imaginings with a tug. He follows it without thought, long ago having learned to listen to its nudgings. The hallways turn and branch off. Occasionally there are bodies in the darkness, crushed beneath a broken piece of ceiling or with a laser hole in their chest. Vader pays them no notice, drawing closer to the insistent call.

And there it is: a door. No different than any other he’s passed in his walking. But Vader knows better. With a flick of his wrist, it slides open, and he slips inside.

Even the imprint of his son’s presence is brighter than anything he’s experienced in the last two decades as it tugs at something in him. The room's bunks are small and pushed together, and Vader feels a hint of irritation that his son should have to share his quarters. But he quickly brushes the thought away and steps almost tentatively towards the closest bed, the one where Luke’s presence is concentrated.

The bed is made, evidence his son had not been sleeping when the evacuation order went out. It’s perhaps not as uniform as an Imperial would have done it, but it’s orderly. Vader reaches out without thinking and smooths out a wrinkle in the dark blanket. His hand falters as he tries to pull it back, landing lightly on the pillow. Not for the first time, he desperately wishes his prosthetics allowed him the sensations of touch he’s almost forgotten instead of rudimentary pressure and temperature changes. 

Logically, he knows there’s no warmth left on the fabric, even if he could feel it. But if he strains hard enough, he can almost see his son curled up there, blond hair fanned messily over the pillow. And if he deludes himself even further, he can imagine himself tucking Luke into a bed similar to this, a young boy that trusts his father. 

But that’s as far as his musings can take him. He cannot bring himself to imagine a reality where his son loves him; trusts him, yes, but loves… He’s not sure a universe exists where that was ever a possibility, and it certainly cannot be one now.

He pulls his hand away from the cloth as if burned. The lingering warmth of his son’s presence wraps around him, and the darkness in his chest recoils from its brightness. His hand clenches at his side, leather creaking and metal grinding as memories of a dark-haired woman, similar in stature to Luke, burn in his chest. She’d had that same warmth. But it had not saved her, and it will not save his son.

He turns on his heel--already raising his wrist to comm his pilot that he’s ready to leave--when his gaze catches on a piece of flimsi resting on the small stand next to Luke’s bunk. He pauses, staring and daring himself to reach for it. 

Somehow it feels harder to stretch out a hand for the note than almost anything he’s had to do for Sidious over the past two decades. If his fingers were flesh, he knows they would be trembling. He knows he does not deserve knowledge of his son’s life, but he plucks it from the stand anyway. It’s so light it barely registers to his prosthetics as he brings it up to read.

_ Luke, I know you haven’t been drinking enough water, so this thermos better be empty by the time we meet with high command. I know you’re working all day and night on your lightsaber but just remember it doesn’t need to occupy all of your time. Force help you if I find you passed out again from dehydration; the medic will not be the only one you have to worry about. - Leia _

Emotions rage inside Vader, standing in darkness so close, yet so far from everything his son has ever been.

He feels a strange sense of gratitude to the traitorous princess for looking out for his son. And he also feels angry that his son would even take such liberties with his own health. But then it registers that his son is building a lightsaber, his first one. And suddenly, all that’s left is grief.  _ He _ should be there to instruct and guide his son in making his first lightsaber. He should have  _ been there,  _ should have been a father.

And the Force affords him a moment of clarity like he has not had in twenty years: it’s his own fault he wasn’t.

The emptiness swirls with that truth and guilt and the all too familiar grief. He carefully tucks the piece of flimsi into his belt before he’s pulling open the drawers of the nightstand almost desperately, searching for something, anything, anything of his child’s that he’s allowed.

He finds a holo that displays a laughing Luke, his arm slung around the princess’s shoulders, a dark-haired man ruffling his hair. The light of the image sparkles brightly in the darkness, like a star trapped between his fingers. He traces his son's features with his gaze, trying to memorize the boy’s smile, one he has never seen in person, is unlikely to ever see except in the image in his hand. He tucks it into his belt beside the note.

On the desk behind him, he finds pieces of a project Luke had been tinkering with, something that looks suspiciously similar to the rockets that had been grafted into Anakin Skywalker’s astromech.

There’s a half-finished to-do list on flimsi next to the parts in what he assumes is Luke’s handwriting, messy and rushed: give R2 tuneup, maximize x-wing’s engine power, speak with Leia about taking a break for once. Vader feels a smile tug at his lips, stretching the scars there. It seems Luke is equally protective of the princess. 

But those tasks are all crossed out or scribbled over. There are others left undone: ask medbay for more sleeping pills. Vader’s frown returns; is his son having trouble sleeping? He knows all too well the effects of war. But he also knows--the Force tugs at him--that Luke’s troubles with sleeping are his fault as well.

And there’s one task, at the very top of the list, darker than all the others, as if Luke had traced over it multiple times, pushing hard into the flimsi.  _ Save Han _ .

Vader has the sudden image of Luke sitting here at this very desk, writing this task on every to-do list he starts, right at the very top, before he drops his head into his hands, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then the door hisses open, and Vader looks over in tandem with his son as another man walks in. Suddenly, Luke is smiling, “Alright, Wedge?” But Vader sees the sadness, the exhaustion in Luke’s eyes, pulling the corners of his smile down, dimming the light he seems to radiate.

And then the image vanishes, leaving Vader staring into utter darkness, clutching all that he knows of his son, all of his son’s light that is left to him before it slips through his fingers.

<<<>>>

There is a file on the Executor. Not an official one, just one that sits locked in Darth Vader’s private quarters. There is no label.

And sometimes the stars find Darth Vader holding it tightly, staring at the faint blue images of a boy, a boy with bright blue eyes and a light the holo can never hope to replicate. Vader stares and stares, and he tries to keep a hold on the darkness, but with every list, every image he collects, it slips farther from his grasp.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys liked it leave a comment. They make my day! Seriously I love reading them so please leave me one cause they motivate me to write more! if you guys have ideas for other stories send me an ask on tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/imadetheline) or just yell about stuff with me. Info about me and all my other tumblrs are [here](https://infoabtmaddie.carrd.co/#)


End file.
